The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows
by greysnyper
Summary: For Chien, some DC pirates. Tim is sinking like a stone in the sea.
1. Chapter 1

**i.** It might have been different if Tim had laid eyes on the League's diplomat first—her dark hair so unlike his mother's bronze curls and her voice louder than any Tim had ever heard. But never harsh. He may have found himself searching for her face in every crowd and making himself use speech to persuade others to do great things.

If it had been one of the runners Tim had met at the start, Tim can't imagine how he would have reacted. Those fluttering patterns of speech, and Tim wouldn't have even dared to lay a hand on them, being too stunned to be threatened by their always sudden appearance. That first time—the _real_ one—had caught him with something to prove and someone to protect. Still, they moved faster than thought and could only be caught by instinct alone. Perhaps Tim would have lived the rest of his days ready to bolt at anything if any one of the runners had been his first encounter.

Had the Captain been in his true form that day, perhaps Tim's nights would be stricken with imaginings, dark noises and his own heart beating as if to spur on the morning's light. He understands fear now, but through other meetings.

And had Tim Drake run into…well, they were something else that defied words. From a land farther than any ocean, Kon-El would eventually be introduced to the willful sailor named Tim. But the boy can't imagine how his life would be different if it became his first meeting. The first impression means everything, and Kon-El's is both something Tim would and would not change if he could.

No. Tim met Dick first. And that moment never leaves him.

The water is cold and salt burns the cuts down his arm. He's shredded the skin and hasn't yet looked to see if the rope had revealed bone from when he had been dragged out into the stormy sea. He coughs and knows that guessing by pain alone won't help him. He's in shock and the water stings his eyes and his lungs. He's blind and alone with the thoughts of how his life _could_ have been.

Well, blind, yes. But not alone. Never. He reminds himself that this is all in the name of the good fight and lets his arms numbly tread in the water. If he holds on, he'll have some answers later to feed to the doubt. The feelings alone could drown him and he doesn't want to be that weak. He can't afford to be that person, the one who dies at the first available chance.

This is maybe the tenth, though. All the fighting and the enemies. His capture and daring escape. It's all like a book he read once when he was learning to read. Those tales his father made up about his sea-faring days, though even those couldn't have lured the boy to the water's edge.

Dick.

Tim splutters again as a wave he hadn't even heard batters him under, but his arms are true and he's once more cold-faced and listening senselessly to the air. Dick could do this, and Dick's not like the others.

Every blow from the wooden sword and each angry shout from Wayne, telling him that he has to be better; stronger than the others. That he has nothing to fall back on. That nobody will save him because that is not their job.

Their job is to fight the good fight, but if Tim thinks back on it he doesn't have a hard time inventing the idea of Wally pulling Dick from danger, or Bart plucking the biographer Clark from a fray. It's just him who has no chance: the wine-seller's son with no real explanation as to why he _should_ come along.

Another wave tosses him like the small speck that he is on the ocean. There's no human cry so Tim trusts that his assailants have left him for dead. Good news, if it didn't damn him to the sea. He tries to find any chance he can to lie back to gasp, the stress of his engagement finally creeping up on him. He truly is by himself and he doesn't want to blame the Captain for this. 

They needed someone undercover. Someone who wouldn't be recognized, without so much skill that he would stand out, only…

Tim seethes, both angry that Bruce had agreed and mad at himself for so eagerly needing the approval. And…shamed. Because Dick _could_ have succeeded, if only he were not the popular ward of the merchant Bruce Wayne.

"It's too late for regrets, it's too late, it's too late…" he gasps, more for himself. Crying for help is useless for the body of water is large and his so small. He doesn't even think his voice could carry any length of distance.

He just needs to keep floating.

For as long as it takes.

And as if by some miracle, the choppy, night waters shine under a momentarily revealed moon and a man in a crow's nest is too afraid to be sleeping on his watch. A cry is raised and as Tim starts to wonder if he's so disillusioned that he's hearing the calls of ghosts on the water, a man in thick uniform is stepping up to peer at the sea with his binoculars.

The moon uncovering the lost boy at sea shines off of the shipmaster's smooth head.

"There's treasure if you know how to look," grins the man. "Bring the person aboard."

And his men act without delay, already knowing the scorn of Sir Alexander Luthor.

♠


	2. Chapter 2

**ii.** While Roy berates Kon-El on his knot-tying skills, Wally focuses on his target sitting on the portside gunwales. Most sailing souls would see the narrow ledge of the barque as being too thin for a seat, but Dick Grayson isn't like any Wally had ever met.

"How long are you going to be giving the silent treatment?" asks the runner as he braces along the side and almost entertains the image of himself jumping up next to his friend.

He's fast but not as balanced, though. And if he fell into the drink he'd have to do it running because submerged he'd have no chance of kicking up enough speed against the ocean's friction. Wally's been thrown to the sea before and the experience is never pleasant.

Dick lolls his head to stare at the red-haired meta and he narrows his eyes. "Are you fighting his battles for him too now?"

Wally lets the tone roll off of him. "I don't think Wayne needs me to, but are you going to stay pissed when this was discussed and agreed upon by most of us?"

"Most," murmurs the ward, turning back to the horizon where land had been spotted an hour before. "It's too dangerous and the risk isn't worth the information. Tim shouldn't have gone."

"And you said as much earlier, but Tim insisted."

"He doesn't know any better," Dick responds, but only after a pause. He shifts and for a moment, Wally fears that he will have to snatch at his friend to keep him from falling. He thinks this often with Dick, but never does need to move. "You didn't grow up with our dear Captain."

Dick says the last word with a strict tone of sarcasm.

"Just because he and I…well, it doesn't mean I'm blind. Everyone knows how he is."

"And everyone bends over backwards for his approval, and don't deny that you haven't. You don't even ask him _why_ he has you running all over the place anymore."

Wally lets out a breath and then shakes his head. "When we get to port, it won't surprise me if you take off like a…"

He holds, close to using the old 'bat out of hell' analogy, and Dick shifts again.

"But," Wally finally continues, "for now we're stuck on the Pearl together and you can't ignore him."

"I know my job," Dick states. "But you're right. When we reach Puerto Cabello I'm out of here."

"To wait?"

Dick finally seems to slip from the gunwale, back onto the safe gravity of the deck. "Three days."

The ship that Dick's recruit had volunteered to spy aboard would not reach the Venezuelan city for a few more nights. The Pearl docking early would make it seem less likely to be arriving just to pry information from the infamous Bane of the Ocean.

"I know how hard it is to wait for something," Wally offers, extending a hand and half expecting Dick to ignore it. 

"Do you?" snaps Dick. "You seem to have plenty of distractions."

"God, between Bartholomew and yourself, you really are making me feel like I've grown old," sighs Wally. "Fine, be like that. But while you sit here and ignore me for five minutes, it feels like five hours to me. And those three days for you are nothing. You know that?"

Dick wills himself to turn, to say something against the tone in his old friend's voice but Wally's no longer in sight when Dick finally finds the apology. He knows better than to take out his frustration on his mates.

Alone but feeling under observation, Dick turns to find Clark Kent duck his head.

"Sorry," calls the biographer, "I really didn't mean to be intruding."

"Whatever," sighs Dick. "If you're writing about how everyone reacts around _him_, then you'll need to make several volumes I'm afraid."

"He chose you for your skill," Clark suggests, moving carefully across the cockpit with legs that had _yet_ to familiarize with the barque's rocking. "Maybe he chose Timothy that way, too?"

Dick reaches up for a shroud and gives the biographer a sad smile. "I just don't think I'll be at ease until I know he's okay."

"Maybe Wayne's felt the same before?"

Dick starts to challenge that, but stops and shakes his head. That man only lives to go down with his ship, but something prevents the ward from saying as much to the writer. He's not sure why.

"I still worry," he resigns, swinging about for momentum enough to propel him up.

And watching Dick still, Clark falls against the abandoned gunwale and silently promises that everything should be under control.

♠


	3. Chapter 3

**iii.** He's awake but maybe dreaming. The blankets are rough at first, on his skin and he shivers and gags and almost flounders on the sudden, hard ground of the lifeboat.

And then someone speaks a familiar name.

"You're Dick Grayson."

Tim imagines how sunken his eyes are but still, he peers up at the face he can't recognize immediately. "Wh…what?"

The knighted Luthor leans closer to the salvaged boy and frowns. The resemblance is striking, but…

"Our mistake," he confesses, snapping a finger to call over a few of his men. "You do look like him, but you're too young. We'll set you up with a bunk and some dry clothes. When you're sturdy, feel free to tell us what you're doing this far from any shore."

Tim feels someone dragging him to his feet and he has to lean heavily on the figure, unable to remember how he had been transferred from life-raft to…it's too dark to name what kind of vessel this is.

His head feels heavy and his whole body aches but Tim dimly reminds himself to focus. He knows the face of the man in charge of this ship and he wants the name to come to him before he gives his own identification. These can't be horrible men if they've given him the luxury of a rescue, but…

There's always the 'but,' he thinks.

As he starts to think of a story or an excuse that he can give to these people, his mind drifts to the promise of real sleep and a dry bed. He tries to focus his attention to the task at hand, but Tim's exhausted. It would be so simple to just trust his luck.

Someone lights up a match and feeds it to an oil lamp, and numbly Tim feels some strange clothes thrust into his arms. He's the opposite of anything graceful as he stumbles weakly into the new garments. He's alone in a small corner and before he even decides to do so, Tim's dropped himself into the compartment's knee and with the pile of his clothes pooling water by his head, Tim feels his vision double which makes the puddles reflect prisms of firelight against his damp lashes.

Tim's asleep almost instantly.

♠


	4. Chapter 4

**iv.** Though Dick had sworn to himself that he'd be off of the Pearl at his first chance, he gets a call from Roy directing him to see the Captain. Staring down from his height, Dick can almost make out the apologetic shrug and smile from the redhead.

It wouldn't surprise Dick if Wally had been given the instruction to pass along, and instead the runner had pawned it off to Roy. As the day had drawn on, Dick had had a harder time speaking to anybody.

He's tempted to ignore the command and disappear, but while everyone he knows jumps through hoops for Bruce Wayne, Dick also knows that he is the worst of them. He's knocking on the Captain's hatch before he even thinks too hard about getting down from his mast.

"Enter and sit down," comes the order.

Dick steps into the main cabin but doesn't take a seat at the table that stretches across the middle of the room. Maps litter the section and some are in a condition that wouldn't naturally happen under the Captain's meticulous care. Dick can imagine how they became creased, though.

The thought helps him stay bitter.

"We have business in town and you can run off to sulk _after_ you've made your appearance."

Dick's nails bite into his palm. "You can tell your _associates_ that your ward is ill and sends his regards."

Up until this point, Bruce Wayne had been just a shadow behind a thin curtain that divided a small corner from the rest of the room. The cloth need not exist, though, since Bruce always _was_ just a shadow to Dick.

He comes around now, his fingers finishing with the tightening of a tassel on his formal suit. "You are _not_ ill and you will be attending me."

"You have an attendant," Dick growls, wishing he could shut up. It's only dawning on his conscious thought about how much it bothers him that his best friend is…

Bruce's gaze is dark and dangerous. "Do you really want to continue this?"

"I don't know what I want," Dick concedes. "But does that matter to you? If I knew, would you care?"

"This isn't about _what_ you want."

"And this isn't about what's right or wrong anymore, either. Timothy's out there doing your dirty work and you want to go to a party. Fine, maybe that can happen but don't you dare ask me to play along."

"Your thoughts are noted on this," Bruce states, turning away to where he keeps his ornamental rapiers. "At the moment it is beyond our hands. When Bane docks on Friday we'll react. For now, there's work to do."

Dick is dressed so differently from his Captain, but the comparison works best for Dick when he favours his own attire. His tunic and his pants loose enough for comfort and yet tested by months of wear and work. He looks like a sailor and he smells like sweat and the ocean. He'd rather surrender in this attire to a drink or two in a friendly bar while he waits out the nights.

But Bruce demands him to dress accordingly. To sip wine and pretend to be careless while he listens for rumours of treachery.

"I expect you to do what is necessary," the man states as if waiting for the argument—there being none that Dick hasn't tried and truly believed in.

"Tim, it's not necessary for him to be out there."

"Get dressed," comes the reply.

Dick roots himself. "If he's not there by Friday, if anything's happened, I want the League involved. I want everyone out to fix it."

Bruce just has his gloves to slip on. "I didn't realize you doubted his abilities so much. I would have never allowed him aboard if I had known."

"Nobody's as infallible as you are, Bruce," Dick says, with surprising calm in his voice. "Have you ever told him that _you_ trust his abilities?"

Bruce stops pulling on the soft, white silk and frowns. And then, as if no reaction had been recorded, Bruce returns to the task and then marches past his ward. "Get dressed."

Dick takes a final scan of the cabin, noting the deep navy shade of the portholes and the way the curtain shifts in an imaginary breeze, the same colour as parched maps or spilt tea. Glass lamps hang unused in the daylight filtering into the room. Every item is practical, made to give a cozy feel but also carries images of something solitary and individual.

Shutting the door after Bruce, Dick pulls his shirt loose and goes to where his own formal clothes are kept. He sleeps below with the rest of the crew, and he prefers his pretend clothes to be as far from that as possible. And yet, some things just can't be far enough.

Or in the case of certain persons, or times…close.

♠


	5. Chapter 5

**v.**Sir Alexander Luthor, a representative of the Queen and a very wealthy man. The gold comes from nearly dominating the slave trade and it has allowed Luthor to be a shipmaster of no less than a dozen routes.

All this comes to Tim when he's shaken awake. The hand that rocks him from a seamless sleep is neither rough or gentle, and then he's pulled to his feet much like the time before.

"How…how long have I been here?" he asks, trying to get words around what could be the widest yawn he's ever experienced.

"Day and a half," the man leading Tim into the open air explains. "The master said to let you recover, but he's curious about you too."

"Thank you, I…who is he? What is this ship?"

Tim asks because his thoughts, though becoming clearer, are still sluggish. He doesn't concern himself too much because he knows he can get away with appearing confused. He's just a poor boy lost at sea, after all.

Tim can now identify the ship as being a brig, and the man identifies the vessel as called the Lexington, also confirming the name Tim had come to consciousness remembering. 

Though Tim's still relatively new to the service of the League, Sir Luthor's name is exchanged in conversation quite often. It's speculated that Luthor will soon be running a monopoly in the shipment of Black-Africans, and there's talk of action against it.

Certainly, Tim can't let on his relation to the League. He starts to divide the topics he's allowed to divulge from the ones he should stay away from. If Luthor's gotten this far in the industry, the man can't be any type of fool.

Lost boy at sea, he chants to himself like a warding spell. And then, the knight's hand seems to be swallowing Tim's own.

"I'm happy to hear you've awakened," the man says, indicating a chair where, to Tim's unmasked delight, fronts a plate of something steaming.

"I have to thank you for saving me, I…I really thought I was done for."

Though Tim's assailed by the smell of the stew, the way the room looks uncannily like how Bruce Wayne keeps the main cabin of the Pearl and Sir Luthor's disarming hospitality, the boy is still categorizing the scene piece by impressive piece.

Luthor is in a white suit and he looks regal and out of place in the ship's compartment. The man looks as if he's never done any labour in his life, but when he had gripped Tim's fingers there had been some roughness present.

He's not all that he seems.

Settling down across from Tim and watching with some interest as the boy starts to sink the spoon into the broth, Luthor says, "it's not often those doomed to sea keep going. How does someone your age get so strong?"

There is real meat and vegetables in the soup and though Tim knows he should be cautious, his last meal had been two days ago on Bane's vessel. The food had been sparse and extremely questionable. Tim had even lost a few meals to bigger sailors before he had inadvertently made them think better of it. That had been one long chain of events leading to his mission being exposed.

He tells Luthor, "I couldn't stop thinking about my mother. She's in Lisbon and only knows I'm in the trade to be a sailor."

"You can't be much of a sailor if you ended up out there," Luthor says, though it's worded as a kind jest.

Tim snorts, aware that he must look like a mess. His hair feels like it's learned to stand up and he feels as if he's growing some kind of illness. The soup is nearly gone. "In Jamaica, one of my mates, new like me, convinced me to hook up with…well, Bane."

Tim drops his voice, staring hard at his bowl and trying to look convincing. "I kinda knew they were pirates, but…well, I thought all the stories were exaggerated. It didn't…go well."

"So that's the ship we crossed paths with," Luthor nods. "The Lexington would have pursued but we have a deadline. Can you tell me boy, what Bane is shipping?"

Tim's spoon scrapes at the bottom of the bowl and Tim brings it up to suck on it, wondering how much of his hunger he's pretending. He did finally acquire the information Bruce Wayne had asked him to, though only through the apparent final request before Bane and his crew executed him.

Even recalling the flight from that vessel makes Tim feel nauseous. He fiddles with the spoon and says, "they were carrying gold. They'd looted many ships prior to my coming aboard and there was talk of something to do with the New World. I was stuck doing menial chores though."

"For a sailor, is any chore menial?" asks the knight.

Tim feels as if he's being tested, and he shrugs. "Mopping and potatoes I can understand. But…well…" he imagines something to make his face flush and he shrugs. "It was menial."

"Ah," dismisses the man across the table. "I understand. Well, we're heading to Spain in the next month so you are welcome to stay if you're willing to work. I'll have the galley bring you more stew and one of my officers will tend to your injuries. They don't look as if they will impair."

"No sir," Tim says quickly, holding back the flinch because he knows that sometime soon he should be arriving in Venezuela. "I'm a fast learner, you'll see."

"Very good," nods Luthor. "Then it's great to have you aboard…"

"Alvin," Tim says after a pause, realizing that he hadn't yet introduced himself. "I'm Alvin."

"Then Alvin, it seems that you're a very fortunate child."

"Yes," Tim agrees, feeling like he should. But his whole heart is just not into it.

♠


	6. Chapter 6

**vi.** Roy Harper sits on a worn, wooden dock that is decorated with a few unconscious sailors and bird crap. Though he is also a ward of a well known political figure, Oliver Queen's trained child enjoys a more obscure lifestyle.

He sits in Puerto Cabello with a badly strung sitar, and he strums it. Then he makes up a song about a girl he had lost to a better man, with a few slurs slipped in for good measure.

The Bane of the Ocean strides not a sitar's throw from Roy and the pirate fails to give the drunk any attention. And after Bane comes many of the crew. A few Roy recognizes from posters and warrants and as his mind slips along to the reasons for their popularity, something twists inside of him.

These men are dangerous, but now with some names to the crimes Roy realizes just _how_ dangerous. One of the strings on Roy's instrument breaks with an awful sound.

By the end of the week, these men will be meeting with a dark shadow in the middle of the night.

For now, Roy keeps his eyes open for a certain, dark haired spy but sees none.

No matter, he tells himself and wants to secret that message away to Dick who is also watching the disembarkment. Timothy could still be on board performing duties. It's usually the novices who get stuck with the crap jobs.

Roy carefully picks himself up, stumbling once as he meanders up towards the imposing ship. "Wouldja lookit that," he calls out. "I ain't seen boats this ruddy in years."

"You wouldn't know what to do with it, drunk," mocks a man who is coming down the plank. He pushes into Roy and Roy laughs.

"Oh man, my man. You gotta take me on board. See these boats fer myself, ya with me?"

The man snorts, but his dismissal or the oncoming punch stalls when Roy fishes out a satchel. It clinks with coins.

"You want a tour, rich man?"

"You're completely reading my mind," Roy laughs. He then swings his arm around the sailor. "I wanna see it all."

Roy's already preparing for how he'll react when he sees Tim. He'll shout and be loud and cause a scene insisting that the kid is his nephew and the boy owes him money. And as practiced, Tim will scowl and push him off and look embarrassed in front of the shipmates he's trying to impress. This is plan B, though.

The original plan failed when Tim didn't appear at first, though it's not always possible for a sailor to excuse himself early from assigned duties.

Half expecting to be robbed, Roy doesn't complain when his new companion leads him on an actual tour, repeating things that Roy's known his whole life and messing up facts that any seasoned sailor should know. Obedient to the plan, Roy asks questions when he can think of them, and laughs impulsively and doesn't make it too obvious to where he wants the tour to go.

And finally, they're back where they have started. Roy plays with his gold absent-mindedly and he gushes his gratitude for the fifth time. "You really showed everything?" he laughs. "All them workers. Ha, you work them like gods. I should be a seaman." And he bursts into giggles once more.

The sailor is impatient for his promised gold. Roy starts dropping coins into his palm.

"You know, I was looking for someone too. Can never remember the ship names though. It's the drink. I know how to ask for all kinds of drinks, but ships. No. Them boats all look the same. But this someone, he's just a kid. Cousin o' mine. Dark hair and a scrawny brat. Says he wants to be a pirate."

"Sure, don't we all?" the man shrugs.

"You ain't seen this kid? Says his name's Alvin. My cousin, right?"

Something flickers in the pirate's eyes, but then he shrugs. "Lots of people on boats, like you say. I've never met that one, or can't recall."

"I see, well, tell him he owes me some," Roy says, raising his voice and dropping the last handful of coins into the man's hand. It'll probably be the last time the pirate enjoys gold before Roy's friends are done with him. "See ya around, my man."

"Sure thing, drunk."

Roy laughs after the man, but it comes to a bitter halt in his throat when he turns and shakes his head. The dark shape on a rooftop fronting the sea catches the meaning, and it's not welcome.

♠


	7. Chapter 7

**vii.** By the end of the first day Tim's fingers ache and he's learned the names and faces of seven of the Lexington's mates. It's only for practicality, though.

The crew on the Lexington seems very introverted, which is not something Tim is used to. The order is impressive, though he's seen just as hearty sailors on the Pearl and working for the League. And they're more personable, too. 

Bane's boat had been an interaction of a different kind, with active threats between men and though words flowed freely there was no doubt in anyone's mind that your best friend today could kill you tomorrow over an odd look.

By the end of the second day, Tim noticed a change in the Lexington mates, though. Suddenly, they seemed to take an interest in him. Tim suspected that their commanding officer had requested it.

Before sleeping that night Tim reexamined his story and worked to reinforce it for himself. He's Spanish, his father was a sailor before he grew too ill to be of use. Alvin tried to follow in the footsteps of his dad, but now he's not so sure this is what he wants to do. He can blame Bane for that, and if they ask further about his experience on the pirate vessel he can act as if it's too uncomforting to recall. He'll find a profession on land that better suits him. He now just wants to go home.

Only, the last place Tim wants to go to is Spain. It's too far away and he truly doesn't know anyone there. Bruce Wayne has some estates but could Tim just expect to use them? He's already screwed up one mission, and what little he's learned from Bane won't do the League any good if he's not able to pass it on.

There's time enough to scout the Lexington while he's initiated into the workforce, but Tim's sketchy plan to disappear with one of the lifeboats fails to develop. Luthor is shipping slaves and that means security is stricter. Tim also doubts that he could get far in a lifeboat before being caught again.

Nobody tries to jostle Tim for his food, but it is uncanny how little the crew speak amongst each other even during work or gatherings. They'll suddenly ask Tim questions but it seems forced. Tim's unease grows and another day passes with him feeling farther than ever before from those he wants to trust.

It's just after Tim pulls himself out of his designated berth one morning when he is summoned to speak to Luthor again. Rubbing his eyes, Tim shuffles across the cockpit as the sun starts to crack at the horizon. There are grey masts carrying rain reaching across the sky, though. Soon Tim knows he'll be wet.

The cabin is warm and Tim smells coffee. Luthor doesn't offer Tim a cup, though.

"Tell me," the shipmaster greets, stirring sugar with one of his silver spoons. "I've heard a rumour or two before taking to the ocean that Bane is involved with several other pirates."

"Oh?" Tim yawns, aware that Luthor appears completely awake. "Rumours?"

"Yes," Luthor says, settling his cup on a saucer and then moving to the table, leaning on the fiddle that will be more useful later in the day when rougher waters triumph. "A gathering of pirates involving not only Bane's intentions but those of the Rogues and involving other names from as south as Ivy's monopoly to the ice frigates up north."

"And you're asking if I know about this?" Tim shifts, not sure if he should play as the ignorant amateur or not. "They didn't talk to me much."

Tim's head is spinning with thoughts, though. The League had touched on some of the more feared names of the sea, but not even _they_ knew these kinds of details. Bruce Wayne had hinted at something big, but Tim had only been sent to find out locations of interest from Bane.

"So why were you left to die?" Luthor asks.

Tim's teeth are working on the skin inside of his mouth. He shrugs. "I really didn't fit in. The things I did…it was…well, senseless."

"Right," Luthor sighs. "So you've implied. But my dear friend Alvin, I'm starting to wonder. See, pirates are criminals. They are a great number of things but senseless…no. There's always a reason behind an action. Some advantage. Some gain."

Blinking, Tim moves to brace against the back of the chair that Luthor had not offered this time. "So if it makes sense to you, why did they throw me overboard?"

Luthor takes a sip and then raises a brow. "I would imagine they thought killing you was more beneficial to letting you live. Perhaps you knew something? Certainly it couldn't have been all that unexpected Alvin. An interesting rope burn on your arm. It's really a mundane wound for one marked for death."

Tim had swung clumsily down from a loose rope, no longer useful as a shroud. It had caught him as he fell. He's still amazed that nothing broke when his body skipped off of the gunwale when his grip finally failed. And then…

The open arms of the sea, Tim thinks. He's seeing them reflected in Luthor's grey eyes.

"I don't know what I saw," he speaks, some fear etched in his voice. "I don't understand any of it. I wish I could take that whole experience back. I shouldn't even be here bothering you. I'd like to go…home."

Tim prays that he passes this test, not unlike Alvin praying for God to forgive him for mingling with pirates.

"I believe you have a job to do," Luthor motions to the hatch. "But if you think of anything…"

Tim nods and respectfully retreats.

With the cool open air stirring his hair, Tim finally exhales when he knows Luthor or nobody else can be watching. So close…

His voice is ringing in his head, repeating how he longs to undo the incident that lead him here. Aware of how this shelter has quickly become dangerous, Tim wonders how much of that regret is real.

"I agreed to this," he exhales. Rain starts to fall sideways against his face, light at first.

Tim must admit that he doesn't have much time left. Especially if Luthor suspects that Alvin is not all that he claims to be.

♠


	8. Chapter 8

**viii.** "You promised," Dick says, with more dark intention than Wally had ever imagined in his friend's voice.

"I don't recall making any such pact," Bruce says with frank stiffness. "Calm yourself."

"He's gone and tonight when we _make_ them talk, someone will be summoning the League. I want a search party out there. I want someone in the original port to make sure Tim didn't get waylaid before approaching Bane's crew."

Wally's heard this kind of instruction before, where the commander is to the point and this thorough. But Dick may not appreciate the comparison to his antagonist now.

Gathered in the galley of the Pearl the more senior members of Bruce Wayne's crew surround a long preparing table. Dick is certainly the most passionate of the attendees, though the faces of Kon-El and Bartholomew seem apprehensive. Wally can understand his apprentice's concern, since Bart rarely seems unperturbed by any ill news. Recalling his time at that age, Wally can sympathize with the younger crew. Mortality seems so non-existent until...

Clark wears a solemn expression and Roy has a clear view of Dick's face. Like Wally, the archer/sailor worries over Dick's moods. They may not understand the dynamics of Dick's relationship with the willing spy but both are familiar with how spontaneous Dick _can_ be.

And then there's Bruce Wayne, immovable. Like always. Not even Wally could say other wise, and sometimes he'd like to.

"I could get in the hang-out no problem," Wally interludes.

"I'm faster," Bart chips in, but Wally almost believes that it's not an attempt to make light of the situation. "Seriously, I've been training."

"Is there anything I could do?" Kon-El asks. Wally notes that the boy doesn't look at Bruce, but more at Clark for permission.

The lamp reflects off of the biographer's spectacles and Wally can't make out whatever answer is given. Then Wally notices that Bruce is giving a side-long look at the biographer as well.

Whatever has just happened is way beyond Wally's understanding so he drops his weight onto the table and points at an unfolded map of the Caribbean Sea. "If Bartholomew can get some hint as to what's happened, I'll scour the sea. Listen in on other vessels."

"I want to go," Kon-El presses. "I can keep up with Bart."

The younger runner snorts, but Kon-El ignores it as well as he dismisses the look of warning from his cousin.

Bruce is once more looking at the writer, but he says, "that is acceptable."

Wally holds his tongue, wondering when Bruce ever had permission to give Bart leverage. And then he thinks Dick is watching him with an irritated look that said 'I was right about you.'

Wally doesn't believe he's bending over backwards for Bruce. There are just a lot of looks being shot around and none are revealing any answers.

"If you'll excuse me," interrupts Clark. "I need to use the head."

"You're a researcher," the Captain states. "Can you be of use in the port, asking questions? Or is that too much trouble?"

Wally notes that he hadn't thought of that option. There's a lot of layers to Bruce's tone, though.

To his credit, the biographer doesn't react to the implied insult. "I'll see what I can do," he says, stiffly.

"I think it's dangerous," Roy speaks up, ending the odd silence. "I mean sending the boys into the preferred drinking establishment of our pirates. What are they going to do; ask around? If Tim's been caught for that very act, it's going to be obvious to Bane."

"We're to waste no expense or _risk_ in finding our spy," Bruce answers. "Isn't that right Richard?"

"If you're trying to make a point, this is _not_ the time," growls Bruce's ward. 

Though they've somehow become the new point of the argument, Bart and Kon-El quietly fade into the background noise. 

The odd-named traveller leans over and whispers to Bart, "I meant it when I said I could keep up with you."

Bart frowns at the hushed words and notices that nobody's paying them attention. He shrugs. "Nothing personal, but I'm a meta and you're human."

"See, about that..." Kon hums, and then says nothing.

Bart's curiosity is peaked, and he does truly want Tim returned to them now. Because a secret is not worth uncovering unless he's got someone else to appreciate it. And in his brief time together with Dick's recruit, Bart always believed that Tim would be the one to best know what to do with secrets.

"Tell me later," Bart murmurs, hoping in vain that he's not being too quiet. "Tell me _after_ we find Tim."

♠


	9. Chapter 9

**ix.** The rain lashes at Tim's face and it plasters his clothes to him and his hair keeps smearing into his eyes. Still, Tim grips the rope while a mate high above in the masts makes sure it's securely tied.

Tim's feet are slipping but he thinks he can hold on for the short time it will take for the man to come down.

Then someone yells, "hey Alfred, the boss wants you."

Tim looks up. "What?" he calls back.

Pulling his weathered form along the gunwale to where Tim is braced, the first-mate comes closer until he's able to reach out and tug on Tim's sleeve. The boy has to return his attention to his partner to ensure that the rope is still supported. 

"Alfred."

"Yeah?" Tim asks, glad he doesn't have to strain his voice now. The ghost of a cold has been coming and going. It's probably stress related.

"Luthor wants to know if Alvin is your real name."

"Of course it is," Tim scoffs, turning back to look at the man and finding something very unsettling staring back at him.

The grin is almost predatory. "Then why is Alfred so familiar?"

Tim opens his mouth, forming the first syllable 'Al' because he doesn't understand. And then, it dawns on him. But this isn't the latest test Luthor has put forth for his guest. Tim's betrayed by the shock in his expression.

He knows too just what he has done wrong the second after it passes.

"What else isn't true, the master wonders?"

If it weren't for the torrential rain and the deepening hour, Tim's sure his face would be pale. "I really need to keep holding this rope, Sir."

It's the only thing he can think of to say. There's the urge to run, spurred by the sharp-toothed look and the chilling realization that Luthor's finally beaten him at the game. He's lost the advantage of being underestimated.

"I think the rope can wait, if you'll come with me?"

He won't die, Tim thinks as the older man drops a heavy hand on Tim's shoulder. They won't kill him because he knows something that Luthor's curious about. But even Tim can only guess at how valuable his secrets are. He could maybe give up what he's learned about Bane, but what if he lets it slip about the League?

Oh God, and there's nowhere _to_ run.

He lets the first mate lead him across the slick deck, and frantically Tim thinks. There's the sea. There's always the sea, but he won't be so lucky twice.

The hatch ahead seems to open and there isn't light inside. It's as if an omen is delivered to Tim, just as he's wondering about whether he can find opportunity in the path ahead.

No, just a deeper kind of darkness. And Tim's touched on fear before. It shouldn't come from one such as Luthor.

A wave crashes against the side of the ship and as the damp slips away from Tim's feet to the scuppers, the boy slips. As his hands reach out to catch him, Tim feels his heart quiver as if aware of how fast the next few moments will be. He's been through this before, and it shouldn't be so startling for him. After all, they're not calling for his head.

The moment his body collects on the deck Tim brings his feet around and the first mate will never be capable of walking straight again. Tim then slides along, unable to brace himself up for a proper roll. Everything is slippery and the next fall may not be an act.

Luthor can raise his voice exceptionally well and soon Tim sees bodies coming at him. He tries to imagine that mindset that Bruce kept ordering him to find. He wants to have the grace he knows Dick can possess. His hands connect with four sailors and he has to twist away from a three-fingered hand that seeks to pull at him.

And suddenly, there is nothing sturdy supporting Tim and he feels himself crying out in bewildered panic. An image flashes to him, where he recalls Bane's ship and how a noose had very nearly done the same.

But now he's _very_ high up. There are raised heads below and shouts just as confused as Tim's. And Luthor's voice drifts up against the wind and the rain, ordering someone to return the boy to his custody. This is when Tim realizes that he's being held by enormous arms.

He inhales sharply, grabbing at the limbs holding him and he strains his neck trying to glimpse the figure. They're flying, he's sure of it. And this makes Tim's mind stutter because this isn't possible.

"It's going to be okay," Tim hears, and like the water-logged dream of being pulled onto a boat Tim thinks he can place the name. Only not today; not now.

Below his dangling feet, Tim sees the shapes of the sailors taking aim and Tim realizes belatedly that they have guns. "Look out," he gasps and doesn't know if he's heard over the firing.

He could be hit too, and Tim's entirely prepared for the sting of the bullets. It never comes. And then there's red lancing fire falling from the sky and part of the boat ignites. This doesn't make sense either, since it's raining hard so whatever miracle caused the blaze, it has to be unearthly or hot. The downpour is already doing its work to drown the burning wood but the men are also panicking.

And then the brig is fading. "Wait…if…why just me?"

"Just you?" asks the voice.

Though Tim hadn't thought much on Luthor's cargo, he realizes with shame that it's because he had been deep in his own troubles. "Slaves."

"Slaves are legal," points out the voice, though Tim detects as much distaste for the practice as he himself feels.

It's also odd, how casual this debate could go. He's being flown through a storm by a faceless figure and they could soon be arguing politics. "Who are you?"

"I'm…a friend."

"I need to go to Puerto Cabello," Tim pleads, not sure if he has any choice in persuading a flying man who controls fire.

"I know."

"How?"

There's a pause, and then the other says, "would it be okay if I didn't answer that?"

Working to control his breathing, Tim nods. Then, unsure if that transferred well, he adds, "yeah. Yeah, I think so."

"Don't worry about the slaves," Tim's rescuer says, after a drawn out silence that seems to weigh awkwardly on both. "I think they'll be looked after."

Tim's found himself relaxing, no longer needing to cling to the arms that support him. "You're new at this."

"Pardon?"

"Never mind. Just…a guess."

Picking up speed and breaking past the storm, the flying man doesn't say that it's a good guess. 

Meanwhile, order has yet to be restored on the Lexington. Men rush about securing the ship and some have given up on being useful, praying or chanting to whatever gods would send something like what they had encountered.

Luthor, for his part, doesn't berate the captain for his lack of discipline. His thoughts are also focused on their strange visitor. But Luthor doesn't believe the man to be an agent of God, despite what his men think.

But fire from the eyes, and impervious to bullets? And the speed at which the stranger had vanished. No…this is far too intriguing for the knight. Nothing Luthor could have expected, though for future reference he'll have some ideas. It's hard to surprise him twice.

The boy's value has increased too, far beyond Luthor's imagining. Though the man had suspected that young 'Alvin' had known something of use, to be rescued by something like _that_…

Well, it's certain that Luthor won't forget this, at least.

♠


	10. Chapter 10

**x**. It's not long after Bart and Kon-El start to realize the shape of what Bane's pirates are joking about that Tim stumbles wet and tired onto the docks.

To have ground under him again is nice, though flight had become less sickening by the time Venezuela's coast had come into view.

"It's safest if I leave you here," his rescuer says, and Tim nods, trying hard not to shake.

He's tired but finally wondering if he can trust that the ordeal is over. He's been plucked from the heart of disaster and given a free ride to where he needs to be. Never in any imagining could have Tim anticipate this.

"I don't know how to thank you," he says. And though he had meant it when he had first sat across from Luthor, he means it a million times more now. "That was…I can't even get my head around it."

"Then don't try," offers the other.

For the second time, Tim senses regret or unease from the stranger. It seems so out of place. How can anyone so powerful be bothered by anything?

Tim nods, though. He feels that he owes the other some kind of promise. "I have information for…well, it's a secret. Do you want me to mention you? I don't know how to get around it, but I'm…well…I do owe you. And they won't press me if I insist."

In the black hours, where the storm is chasing them to the coast, Tim tries to make out the outline of this person; meta or agent of God? Tim's still not sure, though the other could pass as human. There's a crudely constructed mask covering the other's face and it looks like old material from a ruined mast that is covering as clothes. It's certainly not a stylish costume but if it's purpose is to conceal an identity, Tim can respect the success it has.

"I won't ask you to lie for me," the stranger says. "But it would do me a great favour if you didn't go about announcing this encounter."

"I'm grateful," Tim repeats, feeling as if words aren't enough. "But if you're out there doing things like this, well…I don't know what I'm saying. It feels right, though. I'm really too tired to be talking."

Tim laughs nervously and thinks the other nods, understanding.

"Unless you really are new at this," continues Tim. "But if so, I think it's a good path. If you could find a way to do this during the day though…" his thoughts are swirling.

Fear and Luthor and how he still has something to prove to someone.

"The day. You'd fit best in the day," he trails off. "Sorry. I'm…I should go. I'm late as it is, I can't even count how many days and…I'm…thank you."

The stranger nods, and as if by some illusion, Tim's alone and staring at an empty space. A more insistent breeze tussles his hair though. Tim's feet want to give but by some grace, he convinces them to move towards the familiar ship. He doesn't even look twice at Bane's monstrous vessel, feeling somehow safe even now that he's alone.

The plank is not extended on the Pearl, and Tim wonders why there is no patrol wandering above. He looks the sheer of the ship up and down and wonders if he could find his own way aboard, but he's far too tired.

Tim drops down on the wood planks not far from where Roy had once pretended to know how to play a sitar. And though Tim's alert, passively concerned with being caught in the return of his sea storm, the arm that grabs him from behind comes unexpectedly.

Instantly the sense of safety from his rescuer vanishes and Tim jerks his head back to see a dark shadow towering over him.

"Oh G—" he cries, stumbling back until his eyes can take in the full shape. And though his heart screams at him, Tim collapses with a strange sense of relief. It feels wrong inside, like too much of a contrast from his previous rescue. "Bru…Bat…"

The shape doesn't move from where it watches him. "I've just found out that you're dead."

Tim stares and then nods.

"So have you come to haunt my ship?"

There's irony there, or…relief? Tim's not sure anymore. "I'm…long story. I have to tell you about what Bane is planning."

"I've already worked it out of him. I shouldn't have had to."

Among all his conflicting feelings, Tim feels his stomach drop and his face burn. It's almost too hard to apologize. "I'm sorry. It…"

"No. We go on the ship first."

Tim nods, understanding the sense in that. "Com…compare accounts."

And behind the mask, the dark man _is_ smiling. "Yes. Good."

♠


	11. Chapter 11

**xi.** Roy had been watching the Pearl, though by chance he had not looked over the side to see the figure waiting. And had he, Roy may not have recognized Tim at that.

"Nobody's checked back, though it's about time," he explains to the shadowed figure who escorts Tim aboard. "And you, boy. You look like a mess."

"When the others arrive, let them know that he is fine and have them report to me. We cannot stay here. Bane's loose and knows the League is after him."

It's not until Tim throws on clean clothes and surrenders his arm for inspection that he realizes that Bruce is injured.

"You took on _Bane_?!" he asks, finally realizing that the other had meant what he said literally. "The man is a monster."

"You should know," Bruce grunts, noting how candid Timothy suddenly is. "How did you survive?"

Tim explains how the Lexington had chanced upon him. He explains the way he had been welcomed aboard and then the way everything twisted around him, and then Tim catches himself at the part of his rescue.

He stalls, aware of how obvious it is that he's debating the telling of the next part.

Before Tim can make himself meet Bruce's stare, the door flies open and they're interrupted by the ragged form of Dick, still dressed in black with his mask askew on his face. He had clearly been running.

"Oh good, oh God," sighs the costumed figure. "I had just spoken to Bart and…I swear…Tim if you…"

Bruce and the story is forgotten so quickly, Tim's lips straining under teeth. He had had no idea that…that Dick would…

And then Bart's knocking _Tim_ to the floor, the chair crashing and the air knocked from the returned salior's lungs. Like the first time, but reversed. 

"Has everyone returned?" Bruce questions.

Dick shakes his head. "Not Clark. Not Wally."

Bruce nods. "When they return, we prepare for sea. If Bane makes the connection to us, we need some space between us. We need to have the League back us up."

Beneath Bruce's table, Bart is pressing Tim with questions far too often for the other to answer.

It's a secret, Tim almost wants to murmur, not aware of how fitting that would be for the young runner and their strange friend Kon-El. Already, Tim's aware that he probably can't keep the truth from Bruce. And he'd tell Dick in an instant if the other asked.

Closing his eyes, Tim wonders if this counts as sailing home.

♠


	12. Chapter 12

**xii.** Much like awaking from his luck at sea, Tim rolls over on his bunk with a tugging memory rolling with him.

Before drifting into a much anticipated sleep, Tim's attention had returned to the question of his mysterious saviour's identity. Things kept treading to the surface and coming so close to being named, but then dreams had ultimately snatched Tim and dragged him down.

He stumbles out of bed, listens to Kon-El snore across the compartment from him and is about to push at the hatch when he comes to a crashing halt.

"Oh sorry," someone declares, and Tim looks up to see the biographer Clark. "Oh, Tim. I had heard you returned and…well…sorry. I should have been more careful."

It's the odd way that Clark Kent had worded the last phrase that made Tim think of the odd things that his rescuer had said. "It's nothing," he shrugs off. "It's early."

And Tim takes three steps onto the cockpit before he _knows_. The connection registers and Tim stops, aware that his mouth is dropped and the realization seems so grand it should be screamed before he can accept it.

He exhales, resists the urge to glance back at the other who is also frozen in the doorway, and then Tim marches forward because somewhere he has a rope to hold.

If he had met Clark first; if he had _known_ then how much of Tim's life would be different?

But Tim had laid eyes on Dick first, and so it's for Dick that Tim will break any promises. With the time and this new revelation, Tim thinks he can limit what he tells Bruce. Shadows of the night be damned, he thinks.

Tim's got grace and daylight to follow. There shouldn't ever have been any doubt.

♠♠♠


End file.
